


A Song of Mostly Just Ice

by snowballjane (spycandy)



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Skating, Gen, the Robb/Theon is more friendship/squint, very silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 19:23:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/777113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spycandy/pseuds/snowballjane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who will be crowned Seven Kingdoms skating champion? And can a long-broken friendship be rekindled?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Song of Mostly Just Ice

**Author's Note:**

> It's figure skating, not civil war, so the consequences of bad choices aren't quite so unfixable.  
> burntcopper made me do this.

**PETYR**

“Good afternoon from the Winterfell Ice Arena, where the senior men’s free section of the Seven Kingdoms Skating Championship is about to get under way. And what a competition we’re in for as these talented young men vie to be crowned the 2013 champion. Can the reigning champion Joffrey Baratheon, from King’s Landing Skating Club, retain the controversial title that he took last year? Or will popular and likeable rising star Robb Stark win over the judges as well as his home crowd here? Over to you Varys.”

Rinkside commentator Petyr Baelish turned off the microphone after throwing back to the studio. Varys could fill time talking about music and costume choices until the zamboni had finished its work and the supporters had settled in their seats. Yes, he thought, this competition was likely to be a very interesting one indeed.

**THEON**

****

“Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine...” Theon Greyjoy counted under his breath as he jumped rope in the warm up room, concentrating on fully flexing his ankles with every bounce. Or at least he was concentrating with as much of his attention as wasn’t focused on the door in the corner, where at any moment Robb Stark might appear.

He swallowed hard at the thought, losing his rhythm and stumbling forwards as his foot caught on the weighted rope. It had been three years since he had last seen Robb, and not a word had passed between them since. There hadn’t been a text, an email, not even a Facebook-like, since he had been dragged off to the Iron Isles, half hating the Starks for not being his real family.

This had been his home rink once, the place where as a ten year old boy he fell in love with a sport that his father inevitably hated. At early morning practice, amid the princessy little girls who ruled the roost, he had met the slightly younger Robb and they had bonded awkwardly over their purpling bruises from failed flying spin attempts and a shared hatred of the stupid rocker turns in the next field moves test.

It was Robb’s dad who had driven them both to competitions, cheered their successes and supplied consoling junk food for their disasters. When Robb was given a huge plushy direwolf -- the skating club’s mascot -- as a good luck present just before their first novice competition, Theon had stolen it away as a prank, then hurled the giant fluffy thing onto the ice after Robb’s performance. It was bigger than the flower girl who’d had to carry it off. Thus began a tradition of using Grey Wind the cuddly wolf as a competition tossy for both of them, back and forth until the poor thing was somewhat shabby, and after one unfortunate catch foot spin accident, blood-stained from a cut palm.

Then the Greyjoys had announced that they were moving back to the islands and that it was about damn time Theon grew out of prancing on ice anyway. He’d had one brief chance to say goodbye to his best friend and somehow, because he’d been a teenage boy and boiling with fury and a jealous idiot, and his heart was breaking, what should really have been ‘I’ll miss you’ had become ‘I hate you’.

And that was that. He hadn’t had ice under his blades for three years, until he got to college and was free enough of his father to start training again. Three long lonely years, in which he wasn’t sure whether what he missed most was the skating or the Starks.

Now here they were under the same roof again. Mr Stark was dead and Theon had no idea what he was going to say to Robb if he actually walked in through that door. From what people in the corridors were saying, Robb could possibly win this. He probably didn’t care a jot that some guy who used to tag along with him to kids’ competitions was the bottom name on the score sheet.

****

**TYRION**

****

From his vantage point atop the second step of the medal podium, a battered plyboard object spruced up with sparkly paper and hidden away behind the rink barrier until needed, Tyrion Lannister studied the arena.

A huge banner reading ‘Winter Sport is Coming’ hung, not quite straight, above the gathering crowd. A decent number of people had turned out for the event, possibly even some enthusiasts who weren’t either skaters’ family members or members of Winterfell FSC.

Youngsters wearing dark grey, direwolf emblazoned club jackets dashed hither and thither, some in trainers carrying trays of coffee over to the judges’ bench, others already in skates ready for flower girl duty.

“It’s a strong home crowd, you’re going to have to make an effort to win them over,” he told the youth slouched across two of the folding seats behind him.

Joffrey didn’t look up from the world domination game he was idly flicking at on his iPad. “I’m by far the best. The judges will see that, even if the crowd are idiots,” he said.  

“All the same. Your performance could use a bit more energy. Connection with the audience is actually listed as a factor in your PCS score, remember.”

Joffrey gave a noncommittal shrug, making Tyrion grit his teeth. “I’m serious. You could stand to up your game, even if it’s only as a rehearsal for Euros. Your jumps won’t be anything special there you know.”

“His jumps are far beyond anything you could ever hope to do.”

Cersei swept through the fleece and tracksuit-clad huddle of parents and coaches around the end of the rink, managing to make even a pale blue puffer jacket look stylish.

“Yes well, luckily they don’t mark skaters on what jumps their coaches can do.”

Cersei ignored him, as usual. His sister really had turned into the stereotypical nightmare skating mother at some point in the past few years, incapable of ceding control of anything or listening to his coaching wisdom, such as it was.

In truth, despite his detailed knowledge of the sport, his own physical limitations didn’t really fit him for elite level coaching. Left to his own devices he would have become an Olympic level judge by now, but since every other coaching option had either been fired or refused to work with the Baratheons, he was now stuck with the job.

“Go and get ready Joffrey.” His mother’s words finally roused the skater from his game, though with a sneer and rolled eyes as he accepted the make up bag from her hand. “Forget everyone else. You still need to look good for the cameras.”

****

**PETYR**

****

“... and of course one big name missing from this year’s event is Renly Baratheon, another member of that spectacular skating dynasty, who is currently taking a year out of the sport on paternity leave with his husband, the Team7K Olympic fencer Loras Tyrell.”

Petyr paused and noted with satisfaction the sigh of “awww...” from around the stadium at the news, indicating how many people were listening to his full commentary on their headsets, even if the third-rate sports channel showing the championship had gone to adverts after Jojen Reed’s proficient but unspectacular skate.

“Speaking of skating dynasties, let’s take a moment during this second group warm-up to remember Ned Stark. Best known for his silver medal, as runner-up to Robert Baratheon, in the Seven Kingdoms’ most successful Winter Olympic Games campaign ever, Stark died last year in a tragic accident and is sadly missed by all here at the Winterfell Arena, but surely most especially by his son Robb, whose own skating is very reminiscent of his father’s quiet strength and grace...”   

****

**JOFFREY**

****

That rotten commentator’s bias in favour of the upstart Stark was ridiculous. He wasn’t the only one with a tragic dead dad sob story, even if Joffrey hardly missed Robert Baratheon, former Olympic skating champion and annoying drunk.

It didn’t matter though. Stark didn’t have a quad. No-one else in the Seven Kingdoms but him had ever landed a quad in competition. It was pathetic really, they may as well all be in the Ladies’ event where their triple Lutzes might look impressive.

Who cared whether the stupid audience liked his performance? Like his mother always said, the real points were in the jumps. He was going to wipe the floor with the lot of them.

Joffrey Baratheon fastened the cuffs of his velvet jacket and turned to admire the effect in the dressing room mirror. His quad was going to take him all the way to the Olympics and he could leave these also-rans and their shabby northern ice rinks behind him.

****

**THEON**

****

He didn’t breathe at all in the final spin, rising from the twisted sit position into an accelerating scratch and pushing his hands above his head as the music crashed to a finish. There was polite applause as he bowed to the judges, then the crowd.

It hadn’t really gone too badly, given how little time he’d been back to regular on-ice training. The tech controller could hardly miss that he’d under-rotated his triple Sal by miles, but his double Axel had been clean and his still-rusty steps weren’t embarrassingly bad. But as he pushed off towards the kiss and cry to wait for his scores, it all felt just a bit anti-climactic. He’d proved to himself that he could do it, but there wasn’t another damn person in Westeros who cared.

Then something huge and fluffy dropped onto the ice in front of him.

****

**ROBB**

****

He had to run halfway around the arena in his skate guards to get back to the gate after throwing Grey Wind onto the ice, but it had been worth it to see Theon’s baffled delight. Of course, he ought to be concentrating, visualising perfect moves in readiness for the biggest moment of his life. But he thought his father would have approved of the ridiculous gesture towards his long-lost friend.

As he jog-hobbled along behind the rows of plastic seating, with the awkward gait of someone avoiding the plastic trip hazards attached to his feet, Joffrey Baratheon’s bombastic orchestral music started up.

It was a shame really that the reigning champion was always such an arse. Robb had encountered him often in junior competition -- arrogant in victory, ungracious in defeat and, worst of all, cuttingly unkind to the younger skaters who looked up to him. Even the other King’s Landing skaters were wary of him, unlike the Winterfell kids who could be relied on to support even their fiercest in-club rivals at the big competitive events.

It was a team spirit that Robb’s father had worked hard to encourage as club chairman and Robb was determined to continue the tradition himself.

He rounded the end of the seating just in time to see Joffrey setting up for his triple Lutz combo. Though the jump was heavily telegraphed, it was usually immense.

But even as Joffrey picked into the ice to launch, Robb could tell it was too lacklustre this time. Give him his due, he didn’t pop it into a double, holding on for most of the third rotation in the air, but the landing edge juddered then slipped out from under him. The crowd gasped.

Joffrey was back on his feet in a second, but his face was a thundercloud.

****

**PETYR**

****

“Well, that certainly can’t be the performance Joffrey Baratheon was hoping for. It should still put him into a clear lead, but could well leave him shy of the minimum qualifying score for Europeans.”

And damn it, if no-one qualified, that probably meant no nice trip to Italy for Petyr Baelish to commentate either.

“And you can see that he’s furious. He barely bows to the judges and he’s off, clearly keen to be off the ice. Oh no! He’s knocked over one of the flower girls. She’s gone down face first. That looked painful.”

He stopped to draw breath and peered at the girl sprawled on the ice in Baratheon’s wake. Even in her uniform grey flower girl dress, the hair was unmistakable.

“By the old gods and the new, that’s Sansa Stark,” he gasped. “For those of you who don’t know, she took the bronze in the junior ladies competition yesterday. She’s also the sister of Robb Stark who is yet to perform in today’s event. Well, that should get the conspiracy theorists talking.”

Petyr thought fast. He couldn’t afford to talk the channel into a libel action, but this was just too delicious a sporting controversy not to milk for all it was worth.

“I have to say, I couldn’t tell -- was he just in such a blind rage he simply didn’t see her there? Surely he wouldn’t deliberately shove his rival’s sister? Oh good, she’s back on her feet now with help from two of the other girls, but that’s a nastily bloodied lip by the looks of things.  

“It’s a good job there weren’t too many things thrown onto the ice. Young Baratheon clearly wasn’t popular with this this crowd before -- and he certainly won’t be now. One of the other girls is scooting around now to pick up what there is. And it looks like the judges are ready with the scores.”

Petyr winced as the technical mark of 44.90 was read out, before the total score of 94.45. That counted as an unmitigated disaster.

“Ouch. The minimum technical score to qualify for Europeans is 45, so Baratheon misses it by just point one of a mark. It would be interesting to know exactly what he lost marks for, since that same programme scored very well last year.”

There was a small cough from about elbow height, where he found one of the girls in grey, hair fastened back in a tight bun, holding out a piece of pink paper -- a full score sheet print out. That was quick work and he nodded his thanks to his young informant, slipping her a crisp £10 note in return.

“Ah, it seems there was an edge call on the second Lutz attempt and not one of the spins was called as level 4. Well, that leaves things wide open as Robb Stark takes to the ice...”

Over in the kiss and cry, Petyr could see the reigning champion giving his coach the angry cold shoulder. Interestingly, he thought, Tyrion Lannister didn’t look all that disappointed by the result.

****

**ROBB**

****

The best thing about the ice was the way it didn’t melt away when the music started, but everything else did. All the responsibility and worry; the argument he’d had with his mother this morning, fretting over whether Sansa was okay (she was, of course, he’d picked her up from worse falls in practice often enough), wondering whether Arya had managed to poison any judges while on coffee duty, the thought of Jon far away on active service. All these things lifted from his shoulders as he powered towards his opening triple flip. And...

Clean. The crowd cheered as he stepped straight off the landing edge into an outside spreadeagle.

He didn’t know whether it was the audience’s enthusiasm, the glimmer of hope offered by Joffrey’s errors or if it was just one of those skates, but the next jump sequence felt effortless. And as his serpentine steps bounced along to the beat of the music he could have whooped for sheer joy.  

As he hit his final pose, dead on the last note of the music, he could already hear old Coach Luwin cheering. But it was the big, fluffy, scruffy grey wolf flopping onto the ice for the second time that day that made his heart triple Axel.

He was still gasping for breath when he reached the kiss and cry area, where a purple-lipped, teary-eyed Sansa was waiting with his club jacket and a huge hug. He sat down with Grey Wind on his lap and to distract himself from the nerve-wracking wait for scores, waved one of the toy’s paws to the camera. “Hi Bran! Hi Rickon! Hi Jon!” he mouthed to his absent brothers.

It was unlikely that even if he had time to watch, Jon had managed to persuade his army mess mates to tune in to watch figure skating on an obscure channel, but you never knew. Jon could be very persuasive at times.

As he bounced the toy on his knee, the lights caught something shiny. It was what looked like a chewing gum wrapper, attached to the scruff of Grey Wind’s neck with a safety pin. On the back there was an inky scrawl. “Amazing skate, your dad would be so proud. Buy you a drink later? T.”

Robb’s breath caught. For a moment he thought the waiting area might live up to the latter half of its ridiculous name.

“And the scores for Robb Stark,” boomed the announcer’s voice over the rink speakers. “51.12 and 51.80. A total segment score of 102.92. That puts Robb in first place.”

Sansa squealed and threw her arms around him. He looked around, frantic, for Coach Luwin to confirm the score. Winning was amazing, but...

“Fuck man,” said Theon, who was suddenly standing just behind the cameras, huge cocky grin on his face, as if those three long years had never happened. “Fifty one. You’re going to Euros.”

“Yes,” said Robb.  “But first... first we’re going for drinks.”

****

**PETYR**

****

“Wow. Well that’s it from an unexpectedly exciting men’s championship,” Petyr told the departing crowds and any viewers who hadn’t already gone to make a cup of tea.

“Don’t forget that tomorrow’s women’s senior event starts at 2pm. That means the long awaited return of Daenerys Targaryen, who has been training abroad for some years, and has a reputation for being as much dragon queen as ice princess. So we can expect to see some quality skating and possibly more controversy.

“Thank you for watching and goodbye from the Winterfell Arena. Now over to the archery.”

 


End file.
